Work Text:
You touch him like he’s worth something.
Din lies on his back, staring into darkness, into black. The sound of breath fills the air, soft, relaxed, suggestive of the type of sleep that one falls into in the midst of utter safety.
You’re pressed against his side, one of your legs thrown over his, the other stretched straight, toes barely brushing his own. Comfortably cool air flows through his nostrils, unhindered in the absence of his helmet.
The feeling of you next to him is strange, even if it’s a normality at this point. It’s the essence of trust in a way. Allowing your consciousness to slip away around him. Trusting him to lay next to you in your unawareness, trusting him to protectyou if it ever comes to that.
He knows sleep is sleep. It’s a necessity, a natural part of functioning, but it’s always been an act of vulnerability for him: hours of rest caught in hyperspace, half-awake slumbers in caves while on a hunt.
On top of that, he knows who he is as well—the enigma, the stoic, the one simply there to wreak carnage—whatever is chosen by a particular being, but nonetheless, a conclusion such as those is always arrived at. Someone to not be embraced, to not be trusted.
And it makes your trust in him all the more profound, for it’s undeniable that he’s spent his entire life bathed in violence. The cool beskar of his helmet laying next to him tells the fact better than anything else.
There’s violence embedded in his bones and buried in his flesh. Crawling over his body in invisible vines and growing into his skin.
And yet, you treat it as if none of it exists, bestowing upon him the affection that he never believed even belonged within ten feet of him.
The way you splay your fingers across his chest when you snuggle into the sheets. The way you shove your face into the crook of his neck come morning, when the pod of the sleeping cove opens and his helmet goes back on.
The way you murmur ever so often ‘you’re a good man,’ a statement he so often doubts. And somehow—somehow—he believes you.
There’s something inherently soft to your nature, an unwavering disposition, so intensely contrasting to his own. And with each passing day, your grip on him, your haze surrounding him seems to pull him a little further from the violence that had long invaded his life since the death of his parents.
Everything he’s done, every life he’s taken, every person he’s hunted—they all seem to weigh less to you than leaves carried by the wind when it comes to loving him.
“Good morning….”
The softest whisper, the softest murmur, the softest touch. The feel of you shifting against him, splaying your arms to the side in a morning stretch, giggling as you purposely land a forearm across his nose.
He groans quietly, crooking his neck to work out the stiffness. Your hand groggily, clumsily cups the side of his face.
You touch him like he’s worth something.